I used to know things. Where did it all go?
The blind Greek poet who wrote those epics.
What’s his name? And their titles. They don’t glow
any more. They’re lodged lost like tiny sticks
in my prefrontal cortex, smothered moss
thick as crust. All seemed fine last week. Then my
skull lurched – ship crashing iceberg – cargo tossed
into night’s freezing current. How we die,
I suppose: sudden quakes sandwiched in sheets
of brief peace, psyche staggering, blindfold
cutting off blood flow. When is life complete?
When last breath escapes? When the body’s cold?
Or when memory creeps off in darkness,
deserted minds mute to how we were blessed?
Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2016
